Mapping an Exact Cast Iron Pan

I don’t know if place matters (as Neruda in exile undoubtedly felt) or if we, like turtles or snails, carry our homes with us. I don’t know if we see the world as it is, or if we see the world as we are (as Nin wrote). I do know that I long to *see* every corner of the earth, but fear drowning in an ocean if I ever fly.


(And so *terribly* obsessed am I with charting swimming distances to Tristan da Cunha from all nearby shores or possible crash points, and the exact diameter of the Sargasso Sea).


Should I stay or should I go? This is a difficult question for a person with wanderlust who nonetheless fears death by water and further fundamentally believes that place is somehow relative.


Why go to a (relative) distant exotic locale when people in distant locales are (strangely?) exoticizing one’s own home?

But the logic of mapping the relativity of place is subsumed by the emotion of attachment.

And travel makes me as miserable as it makes me elated.

I miss my cast iron pan. Place may be relative, conceptual. Distance might be ever changeable. But my cast iron pan is particular.

I cried for half a day when someone accidentally washed it with soap.

Years of oil, of cooking and eating, and waiting and measuring
years of just one more minute
years of maybe more salt
years of yes, I used clove in this
years of gently wiping
years of just like your grandmother made this
years of seasonings were washed away.

Moving image “Lyrical Crust and Water” by artist Jaanika Peerna

~ by lhdwriter on September 14, 2013.

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